The tiny little lie
"What I've discovered is that in art, as in music, there's a lot of truth-and then there's a lie. The artist is essentially creating his work to make this lie a truth, but he slides it in amongst all the others. The tiny little lie is the moment I live for, my moment. It's the moment that the audience falls in love."
Lady Gaga
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"There's a robot. Do you see Mama his big eyes? He's a tall Robot and he is right over there." Do you see him? Have you seen him before? I was pleased to realize that I could.
When I was about 6 or 7, I occasionally used to lie on my back at the foot of my bed and stare up a patch of stucco on the ceiling. Repeatedly and for what seemed like ages at a time, I would stare up at a cluster of tiny peaks of stucco that I could see with my 6 year old eyes was a little village inhabited by little creatures (half human, half smurf) marching around it. It was animated enough by the tiny shadows cast by those tiny mountains of stucco that once I envisioned it, I could not un-envision it. Time and time again, when I found myself lolling around at the foot of my bed, I could return to the little village. Even years later, I would cast my eyes up there and for an instant catch a glimpse of the little creatures in action. In my memories, I can still sort of picture it. In some small way, I still believe that I could see it if I were to return to that room.
It makes me think about all the brilliant ways that artists convince us that what we see can be true. They make us ask why not?
What about you? What can you see that no one else can? Have you helped someone see the same thing?
Lady Gaga
When I was about 6 or 7, I occasionally used to lie on my back at the foot of my bed and stare up a patch of stucco on the ceiling. Repeatedly and for what seemed like ages at a time, I would stare up at a cluster of tiny peaks of stucco that I could see with my 6 year old eyes was a little village inhabited by little creatures (half human, half smurf) marching around it. It was animated enough by the tiny shadows cast by those tiny mountains of stucco that once I envisioned it, I could not un-envision it. Time and time again, when I found myself lolling around at the foot of my bed, I could return to the little village. Even years later, I would cast my eyes up there and for an instant catch a glimpse of the little creatures in action. In my memories, I can still sort of picture it. In some small way, I still believe that I could see it if I were to return to that room.
It makes me think about all the brilliant ways that artists convince us that what we see can be true. They make us ask why not?
What about you? What can you see that no one else can? Have you helped someone see the same thing?
In the basement of my grandparents' house, there were walls lined with that old wooden siding (WTH do they call that?) and on that siding was faux grain. In that faux grain I imagined an entire landscape of rivers, streams, towns connected by bridges and their teeny weeny faux grain knob people. This went on from elementary school years to well into grad school. After my grandparents' died and we had to sell the house, it was gutting to leave all that behind. Like another death. Wow, haven't thought of that in years. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteCool, you describe that so vividly.
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